I would overcome my idiocy and sell Old Spice after-shave lotion to gangsters. BOBBY “Pretty Boy” Walker was an extremely good student and was thinking quite soundly until the machine gun clattered on Peters Corner at Randwick.

Nobody really knew how many bullets were fired into him but the best guess was two in the head and five around the shoulder. His girlfriend cried.

Clary “The Mover” Riley was driving his new car with the genius of numbers in his head when a shotgun blast blew him away on Bayswater Road. Many people mourned.

Barry “The Robber” Robinson was shot dead by a tug-boat captain over a trivial dispute. The wake nearly turned into a riot.

Ray “Kicker” Burke could card count in his sleep.

Smart guy. Genius with numbers. Right up until the night in Sammy Lee’s nightclub when it all went dark in a hail of bullets.

“Kicker” would not use his feet again.

I grew up with these guys, and we had nothing in common. They were good at school, I wasn’t. They were tough. I wasn’t. They could do math real fast, and I couldn’t.

But I am not dead, not in jail and I do the best for my mortgage.

The above mentioned gentlemen were not only wise guys, they were the product of an incredible strictured and structured school system.

Which, of course, brings us all to the biggest thing since the Vietnam War … the fourth-grade reading test.

We have to have tests. Fourth grade, third grade, second grade, first grade, kindergarten.

The liberals will tell you that kids get educated at different times, different levels.

Of course that is true. Bobby Walker, Clary Riler, Barry Robinson and Ray Burke were smarter, earlier, than I.

If I told you how bad I was at school, you would demand a refund on your subscription to the New York Post.

But by taking exams, tests, if you like, I knew how far I was behind the rest of the pack.

So did my parents, who were not exactly popping champagne corks.

No, they knew, I knew I wasn’t much at this stuff.

But a test is a mile marker. It doesn’t tell you anything other than how far you have driven or how far you have to drive back.

Tests are not designed to weed out the geniuses from the flotsam. They are designed to tell you exactly where you are. So, kids, relax. Parents, relax.

In my case, a test would come and I would puke. Because I was so nervous? No. Because I put off my homework, the same way I put off a dental appointment, and I knew I would fail.

But, at least I knew where I stood. I was a screw-up and suicide was not a plan. A little stupid living was my plan.